Guilty pleasures are a lot like sleeping with your incredibly handsome yet dim-witted second-cousin: you never admit to it in public, there’s a lot of shame involved and you hate yourself afterwards, but it just feels so damn good in the moment.
In these challenging times, guilty pleasures are a must. They are a welcome escape, they help reduce stress and lower your blood pressure. I don’t know if any of the above statements are true because I’m never bogged down by facts.
So let’s embrace our inner child stars and enjoy our guilty pleasures like it’s 1999. Here are a few fun past times that currently blow my mini-skirt up but that I rarely admit to when sober:
Buying a copy of Star magazines’ “Celebrities without Make-Up” or “Best and Worst Beach Bodies.” Admittedly, periodicals like these are what my mom would call “trashy rags” but it’s just so comforting to see that the world’s most beautiful and privileged people can look just as aggressively ugly as the rest of us without the proper rouge and mascara. I also find it delicious when certain super models are caught off guard wearing a bikini with less material than Carrot Top’s act, revealing thighs that have more dimples than a boy band. What can I say? I’m as deep as a lunch tray.
Watching “Intervention”. This is my favorite show on television. I just like to sit back with a big box of wine, a pack of Marlboros and give myself tiny little cuts while I judge the shit out of those losers on Intervention.
“The Real Housewives”. The only franchise I watch faithfully is The Real Housewives of Beverly Hills. The first time I caught the show I thought I was watching a documentary on pre-op, post-menopausal trannies. Sure all the ladies who lunch bare a striking resemblance to Steven Tyler, have the integrity of a sweat shop and the class of a fraternity fart-off competition, but I just can’t get enough of Kyle Richards and company. These Botoxed babes are more competitive, catty and cutthroat than whores in a Mexican brothel but with tackier ensembles and fewer actual jobs. The BH housewives are salty, filled with fake parts and only appear on your tube a couple of times a year. They are like the reality TV version of a McRib.
The Three Stooges. I know you’re judging me right now because this classic comedy team has been accused of being ultra-violent and slapstick is considered the lowest form of humor but I love them more than Kim Kardashian loves wealthy black men. I would argue that Shemp is the thinking woman’s stooge and that the Stooges remain the funniest bastards to ever throw a pie. I have loved them since I was a child and still watch them religiously. In fairness, I am dangerously close to losing my Girl Card as I hated the Sex and the City movies, was bored by Eat, Pray, Love and don’t give a rat’s ass about Team Edward or Team Jacob. However, I love the band Rush, can recite all the dialogue from Top Gun verbatim and adore the Three Stooges. There is a remote possibility that I have a small penis tucked away somewhere.
As for my closing arguments, I honestly believe that if you give some of these examples a fair chance, your verdict may be that my pleasures have been found not guilty.